Past in Flames
by LaurenAblaze
Summary: A tragedy depicting the passionate and tumultuous relationship between Sorin Markov and Olivia Voldaren, two young lovers who are tossed into a dangerous game of alchemy orchestrated by their widowed fathers.
1. Chapter 1

Sorin Markov. Olivia surveyed her undesired betrothed unabashedly with level eyes, her head tilted slightly towards the ceiling to properly convey her disapproval of him. To be quite honest, Olivia had never met the older boy before, but the fact that their betrothal was arranged by elders who neither knew nor cared nothing for the young couple's romantic preferences made her feel obligated to dislike him on principle. She remained still as a statue, perched aloofly on the edge of the burgundy embroidered divan as she contemplated the man she was to marry. Sorin was casually slumped into a matching armchair, safe behind the mahogany barrier between them that was the coffee table, on which sat two cups of untouched tea. He stared back at her, eyes not betraying even a flicker of emotion. This irritated Olivia for some reason unbeknownst to her—she was used to the eager gaze of some young village boy who drank in her every feature, desperate for her approval despite her cold, unresponsive demeanor.

_He's just as miserable as I am, _she thought, brow furrowing unperceptively, unsure of how to feel. Relived? Annoyed?

It wasn't that Sorin was unattractive—quite the opposite, in fact. He had a noble face with a long, straight nose topped by dark, stoney eyes and a stern brow. His mouth was set in a way that made him look neither welcoming nor intimidating; just so, so that he appeared educated yet still approachable. His blonde hair was tied back by a neat white ribbon at the nape of his neck, revealing a sharp widow's peak that mirrored the sharp jut of his cheekbones.

The silence electrified the air with the pulsing energy of uncomfortable awkwardness.

_ How quaint,_ she thought, licking her lips as she recognized her perceived strength to his weakness. _He's not versed in the art of conversation. He can't possibly be the same noble whose status Father emphasized earlier._

"Would you like a drink, my lady?" he purred, his voice smooth and deep. His confidence belied his prior silence and startled Olivia. She jumped slightly at the sudden noise, but quickly regained her composure, brushing a phantom strand of auburn hair off of her face. Sorin's mouth quirked upward as they both recognized her failed attempt to play off her startling.

"Why ask you that?" she replied coldly, looking down her nose at him with more interest than she normally deigned to give to a suitor of hers.

"Well, my lady, you licked your lips. Given the distinct lack of conversation in this otherwise empty parlor, one can only assume that you thirst. Furthermore," he continued, still smirking as her eyes blazed down at him, "being your future husband, it is only appropriate that I tend to your womanly needs so that you do not need to bother yourself with such trivial matters as removing the invisible stick that is running up from the bottom of that chair and up your ass."

Olivia stood up, indignant and furious at his crude language. "How _dare_ you say such a thing to me? I'll be damned to all the hells in this universe before I marry myself to a _heathen_ like you. Now, if you'll excuse me—" she began, taking a few steps towards the door. In a flash, Sorin was in front of her, hand placed gently on her upper arm.

"Unhand me," she commanded. "I'll scream."

"Please, my lady, do allow me to explain my behavior. I acted on impulse—it was irrational and inappropriate. Please, sit," he said, still calm, as he guided her back to the divan and sat her down before lowering himself to one knee on the floor next to her. Olivia, eyes wide in shock and bewilderment at his sudden contrition, obeyed.

"Speak quickly," she commanded brusquely, attempting to match his calm demeanor despite her unsettling confusion. No such thing had ever happened at her meetings with previous suitors; they trembled at the very idea of taking her hand to greet her. They would have never _fathomed_ forcefully restraining her. . . but he hadn't restrained her. She had followed of her own accord; he only provided direction.

"Well, it was clear that laissez-faire was not effective in melting the lady's heart," he began, absently stroking her hand with his thumb. "I had only hoped to take a chip out of the ice by a more radical means of confrontation. I know now, though, that it only created a raging blizzard that made navigation to the lady's good graces nigh impossible," he finished forlornly, eyes cast downward as he let loose a small sigh.

Olivia breathed in through her nose, acutely aware of his touch on her hand. At his sigh, however, she huffed in indignation again.

"You need not use such melodramatics on _me_, Lord Markov," she said testily, eyeing him, attempting to calculate his response. At that, he lowered his head, but not before she glimpsed the half-smile that curved the left side of his lips. She thought she heard him chuckling softly.

_Why is he laughing? He was just caught in his falsity!_ She thought, more confused than ever.

Before she had her answer, the ornate double doors opened as her father and Edgar Markov, Sorin's father, strode in.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything, my dear," her father said, chuckling.

"No, father," Olivia replied, peering out of the corner of her eye as Sorin stood and bowed shallowly to the elders. "Sorin had just spilled his tea."

"Of course," her father said condescendingly, breaking into a grin. "Which is how, of course, there are _two_ full teacups on the table and yet not a pot with which to refill them!"

Olivia blushed and glanced at Sorin and Edgar, who watch impassively with stoic eyes. Why was he not defending her?

"Now, Edgar, if you don't mind, I'd like to finish this nasty business in my office," Olivia's father said, sobering up and turning to his visitors.

"Of course, Viktor," he replied. "I'm just as eager as you to get it out of the way. Sorin, round up the horses and prepare the carriage. I will be out anon."

"Yes, father. Lord Voldaren," he said, turning to Viktor and nodding.

"Always a pleasure, Sorin."

At that, the two elders departed through the next set of double doors on the far wall, leaving the two young nobles alone again.

"Shall we meet again, my lady?"

"Of course," Olivia sniffed. "We _are_ betrothed, you know. No need for formalities."

"Yes, well, that's not exactly what I meant," he replied, smiling. "Tonight is the full moon. My _research_ shows that there is a balcony off of your bedroom that is just _perfect_ for surveying the stars and entertaining visitors." He winked as Olivia clenched her jaw.

"Crude and improper again, Lord Markov. You have yet to make a decent impression. You _do_ realize that you are speaking with an educated lady of high social status, correct? I am not some tavern girl that is wont to be seduced by smooth words and midnight trysts."

"My apologies, Lady Voldaren. You said yourself we were past formalities; I was just hoping to better meet your acquaintance. Your _true_ acquaintance, not the porcelain doll that greets suitors with the premeditated conversational pieces that somehow indicate that you are of high society." He bowed, backing towards the double doors from which their fathers had originally entered.

"Regardless, I will be in the garden by the statue of the woman with the wolves—from what I have gathered, it is your favorite."

Before Olivia had a chance to response, Sorin bowed melodramatically then slipped out the door, leaving her standing with her hand in the air, waiting to be kissed—not because she wanted it, but because formality dictated it.


	2. Chapter 2

Olivia stared blankly at her reflection in the mirror, mulling over the events of the afternoon and Sorin's enigmatic invitation. What were his motives in doing so? And why the secrecy? What were the Markovs about, anyway, with their "nasty business" and vacant family line?

She absently reached back and began to pluck out the combs that held her hair up in all its elaborate impracticality. The auburn locks cascaded down over her shoulders and past her shoulder blades. She gathered the mess of curls and pulled it to the side so she could better handle it, running both hands down the thick mane in an effort to smooth it out. Olivia saw her hair as both a blessing and a curse: a blessing in that most potential suitors of her own social status believed the red to be a curse, an indicator of some mental instability or disfavor with the gods, so she was consequently left alone by what would normally be men who were decades older than she; a curse because she was forced to deal with droves of social climbers who had more interest in her dowry than her hand in marriage. The sudden arrival of the Markovs, the entirety of whose bloodline lies in the veins of only Sorin and Edgar, and their equally hasty proposal for a marriage was shocking to her and her father; Viktor, however, was more inclined to welcome the offer with open arms for, despite his protestations otherwise, he was eager to marry his daughter off before she aged past her prime.

Initially, Olivia believed that the Markovs were just another pair of frauds attempting to get an in on her inheritance. But the more they learned about the Markovs, the farther from the truth that seemed to be, particularly because the family's wealth was vastly greater than the Voldaren's meager estate. Why, then, the sudden interest in the girl with the cursed hair? After their meeting, she wondered of the nature of the "nasty business" between Edgar and her father. Viktor Voldaren was far from a businessman—the Voldaren's wealth had been handed down for centuries. Certainly it wasn't the betrothal . . . unless there was something horrifically wrong with Sorin about which she was uninformed?

_No, there is nothing horrific about him except his manners_, she thought with an unplaced and unwarranted confidence. She was not sure why, exactly, she trusted Sorin, but she felt as though he was honest, if anything. She still did not like him. He made her feel some stirring of restlessness in her heart whose origins she could not understand; his mannerisms made her want to leap out of her chair and run into the forests just for the sake of running. Perhaps it was his calling her a porcelain doll that left her uneasy. Olivia always thought of herself as far from boring; she was articulate with just enough wit to remain ladylike yet still an interesting conversational partner. A familiar wild spirit danced in her eyes and she was sure that others were aware of it. . . Or was she actually a bore? She leaned closer to the mirror, examining her steely grey eyes as if looking for that spark. A sound at the glass doors that led to the balcony, covered by a purple velvet curtain, startled her from her introspective reveries.

She rose from her vanity and tiptoed over, hoping it was just the wind. She gingerly pushed a corner of the curtain away to reveal . . . nothing. The moon hung heavy in the night sky framed by its twinkling children. The marble stone of the garden seemed luminescent in the silver light. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the place in the dark green hedge maze where Sorin had announced their meeting. She could not make out the details of the statue, but she was sure it was still too early for him to be there just yet.

_Besides_, she thought scornfully,_ who is _he_ to invite me somewhere on my own property?_ _ Who says I'm to show up anyway? It's not proper, to meet a boy in such a way._ She returned to the mirror and leaned onto the bureau on which it was fastened, preferring not to seat herself again. The smoothness of her white skin was only interrupted by two perfect, round splotches of pink on her cheeks. Her lips and eyelids were painted a similar shade of pink as that on her cheeks, further accentuating her pale skin and bright eyes. _By the gods, I _am_ a porcelain doll._

At that, she had made up her mind. She marched purposefully to her wardrobe and pulled down a deep emerald velvet cloak. She threw it over her white nightgown, not bothering to dress herself up any further, and flung open the glass doors to the balcony. The air was warm and soft; no humidity clung to her skin and lungs. She leaned over the edge, gauging the drop below her, and almost immediately straightened back up, feeling slightly nauseous. She was only two stories up, but such a fall could still seriously injure her. She couldn't make Sorin's little rendezvous with two broken legs. She could leave through the servant's door in the kitchen, but even then she'd risk running into her father on one of his late-night wanderings. How would she explain herself then? She'd never attempted to sneak out before. Then again, she'd never had a _need_ to do so. She began to wonder how the heroines in her many different stories accomplished such feats. And then it hit her.

She back off of the balcony and scurried to her bed, tearing off her bedsheet in one grandiose gesture. Dragging it behind her, she made her way back outside and double-knotted the end of the sheet around the railing of the balcony. She gave it a sound couple tugs and, satisfied with its perceived durability, began to slowly (very slowly) climb down to the ground below her. Hand under hand she went, feet sickled to provide extra grip. To her surprise, she wasn't afraid. In fact, she felt confident and exhilarated. She'd performed dangerous feats before, like the one time she kicked her horse into a gallop instead of the standard slow trot imposed by her father, but nothing to this extent.

_Show me a porcelain doll that can do _this_, _she thought triumphantly, glancing down in her confidence to survey her progress. Big mistake. Her head swam as the ground below seemed to expand away from her. She shimmied faster, hoping to outrun her own fear, causing the sheet to swing dangerously back and forth.

It all happened in mute chaos. The knot of the sheet came undone and, too quickly for her to react, Olivia fell, still clutching the sheet, to the ground. She squeezed her eyes shut, anticipating the inevitable sound of every bone in her body breaking, but it never came. She landed on something sturdy, warm, and soft. She peeked one eye open and there, unshaken, stood Sorin, proudly holding her in his arms. He wordlessly set her on her feet, eyes glimmering in amusement, but was quick to steady her when she swayed, still swooning from the fall. She began to tremble and hyperventilate, the initial shock of her fall wearing off to expose her true raw feelings composed primarily of delayed panic.

"Feeling adventurous, are we?" Sorin asked. "There is a reason why there are no female adventurers, you know." That snapped Olivia out of her traumatized state. She narrowed her eyes and jabbed a finger into his chest, expending all of the feelings of her fall into the rage at his offensive comment.

"The reason why there are no _lady_ adventurers is not because we're incompetent but because of that silly mindset in itself! You say we can't so you don't give us the chance to. It's imbalanced, I say. I was doing fine until my knot came undone," she sniffed, her composure and royal airs returning her to her senses.

Sorin chuckled, unfettered. "You call that a knot? It looked more like a tangled piece of laundry . . . oh, yes, because it _was._"

"You insensitive pig! How long were you watching me?! You're lucky I don't have the dogs set on you for trespassing. Who are you to invite me into my own garden, anyway? At midnight, at that!"

"Ah, yes, our rendezvous," he said cooly, glancing up at the moon. "I do believe we are late for that. Shall we?" he asked, taking hold of her arm. She jerked it away, shooting him a glare.

"I can walk myself, thank you. Besides, there are many questions that require answers before I trust you to even _gaze_ upon my visage."

"Oh, dear Olivia, is that any way to treat the man who just saved your life?" he said, putting on a wounded air.

"My life? Ha! I would have been injured, perhaps, but certainly not dead. Your melodrama is most unbecoming of a man." At that, she marched ahead of him at a brisk pace, nose in the air, feeling at least a modicum of control over the already chaotic night that was sure to become much worst.


End file.
